My fingers travel to the homemade tattoo on my side, put there without my permission. “They have the same tattoo as me.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. I’ve shocked Lyric beyond words, which doesn’t seem natural.
“We didn’t choose to get them,” I mumble, completely clueless why I’m telling her this. “They were put on us, from what I can remember.”
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, as if she’s trying to physically restrain herself from asking.
“What happened to you?” she finally asks.
I grind my teeth so forcefully it actually hurts my jaw. “When I was younger, we were taken by these . . . people who had these really strange beliefs. They put the tattoos on us.” My voice quivers almost as intensely as my heart as I speak of the day my mother betrayed her three children. It’s the same day that my memories start to break apart into charred fragments that barely make sense.
Lyric swallows hard. “Ayden . . . I . . .”
“Can we please talk about something else now?” I plead in desperation, barely able to breathe. “Please. Something happy.” I need my happy Lyric back. Need my happiness before I fall back into the darkness that I carried around for two years after that day.
Silence stretches between us before Lyric says, “Did you hear about Maggie?”
I exhale, my muscles loosening. “No, but I’m guessing she’s dating someone new now.”
She smiles as she rests back in the chair, making the shift of attitude so breezy. “How’d you guess?”
I give a half shrug. “Because she dates someone new every day.”
Lyric giggles, but her laughter silences as she opens the desk drawer. She squints at something inside it, and a pucker forms at her brow. “What on earth?” She pulls out a bottle of scotch along with a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. “Dude, I know my parents drink”—she shows me the pack of cigarettes—“but I never knew they smoked.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve smelled it on your dad before.” I stretch my legs out and slant my head back at the ceiling decorated with hundreds of guitar picks. “It must have been so cool growing up here,” I remark as I spin the chair around, imagining what it was like living here. Probably pretty great since she’s so damn happy all the time.
“Yeah, I guess it was pretty fucking awesome.” Lyric unexpectedly starts hacking.
My gaze darts to her. I have to bite my lip to restrain my laughter. “Did you just take a drink of that?”
She wipes her lips, shuddering as she stares at the bottle of scotch in her hand. “Yeah, so what?”
“Have you ever drank before?”
“No.” She twists the cap back on. “Have you?”
I shrug. “A couple of times.” That’s all I say, not wanting to relive the things I’ve done, like fighting, drinking, and stealing stuff. “You shouldn’t start with scotch. That’s strong shit right there.”
She meticulously eyes me over. “You want a taste?” She extends her arm across the desk, with her fingers enclosed around the bottle.
Even though I probably shouldn’t, I snatch the bottle from her and swallow a gulp or two as Lyric watches me with inquisitiveness. When I remove the mouth of the bottle from my lips, she grins.
“You didn’t even gag.” She grabs a cigarette, along with a lighter that’s inserted into the pack.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. He’ll be able to smell it.”
“I’m just curious.” She reclines back in the chair and pops the end of the cigarette into her mouth.
“Well, you shouldn’t be. That stuff is bad for you.”
“I’m not curious about smoking,” she says, cupping her hand around her face as she flicks the lighter and tries to light the end, “but about you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can never figure stuff out about you.”
“Like what? If I know how to light a lighter?”
She shakes her head, still struggling to light the cigarette. “No. Like what you like to do. If you really are a bad boy at heart. If you’ve ever smoked before.”
I elevate my brows at her. “That’s what you want to know about me? Out of all things?” After the conversation we just had?
Giving up on the lighter, she rises from the chair and ambles around the desk toward me with the cigarette still resting between her lips. “Well, I have this theory that this good, obedient guy I know isn’t the guy who pulled up in that sedan a month ago.” She leans over me and taps the hollow of my neck. “I mean, the collar’s gone. You took it off at day three, and I could never figure out why—why it was so easy for you to give up your Goth side.” She slides her hand to my ear and traces her finger across the lobe, moving her body close enough that I get a straight view down the front of her shirt. I try not to look, but my eyes stray more than a few times, my heart rate quickening. “And the gauges, too. All you have now are these tiny scars.” Her hands travel down my arms, causing goose bumps to sprout across my skin as her fingers come to a rest on the tops of my hands. I start to panic, thinking she’s going to ask me about the scars there; instead, she grazes the pad of her thumb over my fingernail. “I really do kind of miss the black nail polish.”
I shiver from her touch. “I don’t.” My voice cracks as her fingers graze my knuckles, and I quickly clear my throat.
It’s just a simple touch.
A lyrical brush of fingers.
Nothing that can hurt you.
Anymore.
All thoughts vanish, when she straddles my lap. My heart slams forcefully against my chest. I can’t figure out what to do with my hands. Definitely not touch her; otherwise, I might lose it. But I look awkward with them out to the side, so I drape them on the armrests and fold my fingers inward.
“How much of that did you drink?” I inspect her face to see if she could possibly be drunk, but I’m feeling a little woozy myself and my vision is a bit hazy.
“A few swallows.” She hands me the lighter, places the cigarette in between her lips again, and waits for me to light it for her.
“This is going to teach you a lesson.” I drag my thumb across the top of the lighter and bring the flame closer to the cigarette.
“And what lesson is that?” she asks as the fire crinkles the paper. Moments later, she begins hacking again. She hurriedly removes the cigarette from her mouth as clouds of smoke puff from her lips.
“That smoking is bad for you.” I pry the cigarette from her fingers and slant over to put it out in the ashtray, fighting back my laughter.
After she finishes coughing up her lungs, she settles into my lap again. “So have you?”
Again, I question how drunk I am when I start to get a little too happy down south about her sitting on my lap. I’ve never really been turned on before, not in a welcomed way anyway.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I ask, getting squirmy.
She shakes her head, positioning a hand on each side of me. “Nope. Not unless you start freaking out.”
I mentally chant the lyrics of the first song I can think of.
You make me dizzy. You make me ache.
You make me burn, burn, burn.
Your touch is toxic. Poison.
Yet I’ll never learn, learn, learn.
“Fine,” I admit. “Yes, I’ve smoked before, but not since I moved in with the Gregorys. I went through this phase where I did a lot of things, right after I entered the system.”
“I knew it.” She sloppily plays with my hair, running her fingers through it. “You were a bad, bad boy, Ayden. Maybe that’s what I should start calling you. Bad boy instead of shy boy.”
“Is that what you’re into now? Bad boys?” My voice comes out deeper than I planned.
“Maybe.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not one anymore, then, huh?”
Her green eyes sparkle as she taps a finger on her bottom lip. “So, you’re saying you don’t want me to be into you?�
� I remain silent, feeling as though I might be walking into a trap. Her lips curve upward as she continues, “Because something might suggest otherwise.”
A beat of confusion passes until her insinuating gaze drifts downward. Realization clicks.
“Fuck.” I hop out from under her so quickly she ends up falling onto the floor. I face the door, cursing under my breath, completely fucking mortified. How the hell did we go from talking about my past to her teasing me about getting a hard-on? I shouldn’t be surprised, though. This is Lyric. Make me crazy, ache, trouble breathing, heart-liberating Lyric.
“Don’t worry,” she says with an off pitch giggle. “It happens to most guys. At least, that’s what they taught us in health class.”
I shake my head, telling myself to chill the fuck out. It’s not a big deal. It’s just Lyric. It doesn’t mean anything. Mean that. “You seriously have no boundaries.”
“Yeah, but that’s what you love about me.”
I can hear her moving up behind me. I have no idea what’s about to happen, or what I want to happen. Thankfully, I don’t have to think about it too hard, because a door slams from somewhere in the house.
“Oh shit.” Lyric flies into panic mode, running over to the desk where the scotch, cigarettes, and ashtray are. She tosses the bottle and cigarettes into the drawer then stares wide-eyed at the ashtray. “What do I do with this?”
Part of me wants to keep my lips zipped to pay her back for teasing me, but I care about her too much to let her get in trouble. So I rush over and grab the ashtray while Lyric turns off the music and stuffs the CD back into place. I carefully open the window and pour the ashes out onto the back lawn. After closing the window, I return the ashtray to the drawer where I find a can of air freshener. I douse the air with it and tell Lyric to flip on the ceiling fan. We finish cleaning up the best we can, and then Lyric seizes my hand and jerks me out the door.
“Just play it cool,” she whispers loudly. I can smell the scotch on her breath.
This is a disaster in the making.
“Just let me do the talking,” I tell her as we creep up the hall toward the kitchen. “And don’t breathe on anyone.”
She gives an exaggerated nod. I sigh.
We are so going down.
The situation only worsens when we enter the kitchen. There is cake, ice cream, and plates all over the countertops. Not only are her parents there, but so is every member of the Gregory family, most of them turning to look at us as we enter. I swear to God it’s like they know. Mr. Gregory pauses the longest, his head cocking to the side as he searches both our faces.
Fuck, he knows.
I open my mouth to say something, but Lyric beats me to the punch.
“I think I’m going to throw up.” Her fingers slip from my hand as she bolts out of the kitchen toward the bathroom.
Mrs. Scott glances at Mr. Scott, and then she runs after Lyric. Mrs. Gregory looks at me, the disappointment in her eyes making me want to sink into the earth and vanish into the dirt. She sighs then whispers something to Mr. Gregory. His eyes widen slightly as she backs away and ushers the kids out of the kitchen with her.
Then it’s just Mr. Gregory, Mr. Scott, and I, in an overly large kitchen that somehow feels overcrowded. The situation is alarmingly uncomfortable. Rarely does Mr. Gregory have to be the disciplinarian, but I have a feeling he’s about to.
I want to run out the door. Run away. A year ago, I would have, but I don’t think I can do it now—go back in the system. No, I’m going to have to grovel, beg them to let me stay here with them.
“I’m sorry, we just . . .” I trail off, unsure of what to say. The last thing I want to do is get Lyric in trouble, but I’m worried if I take the fall, I’ll be kicked out.
Mr. Scott and Mr. Gregory exchange a look then Mr. Scott scoots out the barstool beside the one he’s sitting on and pats the seat while Mr. Gregory leans back against the counter and waits for me sit down.
Blowing out a breath, I plant my ass in the seat.
“What exactly were you and my daughter up to tonight?” Mr. Scott asks, watching me like a hawk.
“Um, we went on a bike ride, sir,” I answer, but it sounds more like a question than a response.
“What did you do when you got home, though?” This time it’s Mr. Gregory that speaks. “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d guess the two of you have been drinking tonight, which would be really, really bad since we set ground rules of no drinking.”
“Um . . .” I struggle for a response, glancing back and forth between them.
Rat out Lyric? Get kicked out? What the hell do I do?
I don’t want to go back into the system.
Don’t want to go back.
Don’t want to.
Ever.
Mr. Scott leans over and sniffs the air. “Is that my scotch I smell on your breath?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” My pulse pounds as I rise from the stool with my head tipped down and my shoulders sagging. “I’ll go pack my stuff.”
“Pack your stuff?” Mr. Gregory mumbles, confused. The two of them trade a look, and then their expressions soften. “Ayden, we’re not going to kick you out, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
My gaze skims back and forth between them. “But I broke the rules.”
Mr. Gregory says to Mr. Scott, “See, this is what happens when they give us responsibilities. We fuck things up.” Shaking his head, he returns his attention to me, standing up straight. “Son, we’re not going to kick you out because you broke a rule, but I do need to punish you.” He seems puzzled over what to do next, and seeks help from Mr. Scott. “What do I punish him with?”
He shrugs. “I have no fucking idea. Ella usually comes up with the punishments, and this is the first time Lyric’s done something like this. Maybe ground him for a week?”
This is the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed. In the past homes I lived in, by this point, I’d be getting yelled at. If I were still at my mother’s, fists would have been flying. But that still wouldn’t have been the worst part. No, that would come later.
Mr. Gregory considers the idea. “That seems doable.” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
I shrug, so damn confused. “Um, it sounds good to me, sir.”
He nods, looking relieved as he stands up straight. “All right, you’re not allowed to do anything for a week.”
I keep my head down as I breathe in relief. “Okay, sir.”
“And stop calling me sir,” he sternly adds. “That’s part of your punishment, too. From now on, you have to call me Ethan.”
I’m relieved he didn’t ask me to call him dad. That I couldn’t handle, since I’ve never called anyone dad before. Getting kicked out I can’t handle either, not anymore. Hell, I can barely handle the fact that they seem to want me around, despite the fact I’ve messed up.
“Okay.” As I’m starting to relax, Mrs. Scott enters the room, dragging Lyric in with her.
“Your daughter would like to tell both of you something,” she says, staring at a very pale looking Lyric.
Lyric sighs then looks at her dad. “I’m sorry that I drank some of your scotch and smoked your secret cigarettes.” Her dad’s eyes widen, as if he’s been busted, while Lyric continues, “And, Mr. Gregory, you should know that it was my idea. I talked Ayden into going into my father’s office and into drinking. And he didn’t smoke. That was all me.” When her gaze flicks over at me, the damn girl smiles and winks.
I got your back, she mouths as she wanders around the counter and takes a seat beside me. She leans in and whispers in my ear, “I’m going to make this up to you by helping you find your brother and sister. I promise.”
I want to hug her, but decide it’s probably not the best move right now, nor am I sure I can handle a hug. It’s a strange feeling, though—wanting to touch someone. It makes me pause. Really think. About who I’m turning into. Could I somehow, after what I’ve been through, turn out normal? Lose the f
ear of touching someone? Of the dark? Of the past?
I stay put until eventually everyone gathers back into the kitchen to eat cake and ice cream, and reminisce about my first month as being part of the family. It’s a pretty good ending to the day, and part of me thinks the perfection is going to carry throughout the night. That maybe my nightmares will somehow vanish.
But the moment I close my eyes to go to sleep, I fall into darkness and my scars start to bleed again.
Bleed. Bleed. Bleed.
Like wilting rose petals.
Against the darkness.
Dripping against the shadows.
Around me. All around me.
The metal bites my skin.
Killing me slowly. Painfully.
Never letting me breathe again.
LYRIC BEING LYRIC, SHE KEEPS her promise to me and helps me search for my brother and sister. We spend a lot of time during the summer and well into the beginning of senior year searching. We keep our efforts from the Gregorys and Scotts, though, mainly because it feels like we’re doing something wrong.
No article or search gives us any information on their whereabouts, though, even when we try to break into the social service’s records—yeah, we’re that awesome. Of course, we fail epically with our hacking since neither of us are computer geniuses.
We’ve been in my room all day. It’s late. The stars and moon are shining brightly from outside the window. I’m tired of staring at the computer screen. Lyric looks bored as hell, lying on her stomach on my bed, messing around with her phone.
“I think I need a break,” I tell her, swiveling in the chair as I rub my weary eyes.
“Don’t get discouraged.” Lyric tosses her phone aside and rolls off the bed, tugging the hem of her dress down.
The fabric is black and red with stars on it and it’s just the right length that I get an eyeful every time she bends over. I try not to look when she does, but ever since the incident in her father’s office a few months ago, I’ve been struggling with my attraction to her, something I’ve yet to tell anyone about, even my therapist.
If I were a better guy, I’d tell her to be more careful when she bends over. But I’m not a better guy. I’m a confused guy who got his first welcomed hard-on while she was sitting on his lap. I want her, yet I’m afraid to want her, afraid to feel that way about her, so I try not to look.
Unraveling You Series: The Complete Set Page 6
